


to snow

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Pining, Tender Sex, The Duchess does not make an appearance in this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: A bedchamber in Beauclair Palace receives a long-awaited guest. Geralt and Dandelion try to be discreet.Set withinThe Lady of the Lake. Minor spoilers for plot points in the novel series.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	to snow

Toussaint meant a great many things to that strange hassa comprised of Geralt, Milva, Dandelion, Cahir, Regis, and Angoulême. 

It meant temporary but certain refuge from the war and the pursuers that had dogged their steps or simply wished to see them dead, including yet not limited to Her Royal Toothless Queen Meve and the armies of Lyria and Rivia; grey-haired and red-faced Marshal Vissegerd and his army of Temerians and Cintran emigrants from Fort Ameria; any number of black-cloaked, blood-thirsty Nilfgaardians who had initially sought Ciri and now desired vengeance for certain personal reasons; and others, most likely. 

It meant a chance to recover and regroup. They were exhausted, each and every one of them, bloodied and bruised and sore from the saddle. It meant they could allow wounds to heal and bellies to fill and good sense to be regained by a roaring fire and after a good night’s sleep, all things that none of that strange company had managed to enjoy simultaneously for quite some time; this is a point which shall be revisited later, and yet can not possibly be stressed enough, for a good night’s sleep meant recovery for more than aching bones, but for the mind too.

Still, if Toussaint meant none of that, if all that it meant was that Milva, Regis, and Angoulême had ridden unknowingly ahead to a death sentence and that Geralt and Cahir were not far behind in meeting them in some unceremonious end, it could still be said that another great milestone had been reached in the treacherous journey that many members of their mixed company even now retained some doubts about.

Only it _did_ mean all of that. All of it and more. To Dandelion in particular, who it seemed to all but one was not Dandeliom at all, it meant the most gracious and ostentatious of greetings, as well as many other luxuries and comforts he had grown to lament and long for on the road—the most delightful and luxurious of which was fucking in a warm, soft bed, behind closed doors, surrounded by four or more walls, and without the threat of being pierced by an arrow, disemboweled by a sword, consumed by an ambulating tree, and/or being publicly executed by the army simply for the sake of being made an example of.

The celebrated viscount would reflect on that last concern some time in the future, but for now, he was more concerned about fucking.

The fact of Dandelion’s opportunistic hedonism was the worst-kept secret in the entire Sansretour valley. His romantic trysting was completely public knowledge, and was quite possibly the only reason that Geralt and company had any sort of chance of being received with open arms; ironically, his trysting was also a well-known fact by his traveling companions, as it was with one of their own that he frequently trysted, although no-one dared to question the romantic nature of it while pretending to sleep among brush and bushes. What was clear to all involved, however, was that Dandelion’s lovers were to remain entirely ignorant of his activities, and unfortunately, he had chosen one who was perhaps somewhat ignorant to this ignorance. 

Geralt broke protocol in less than a week. 

The Witcher waited until night-time to pass quickly and soundlessly through the corridors of Beauclair Palace, slip through an elegant wooden door into the opulent bedchamber that Dandelion had proudly and not quietly suggested he had earned _ex officio_ , being Her Enlightened Ladyship Anna Henrietta’s long-awaited lover, and discovered it empty, filled only with an anticipatory silence and a few candles which had been left to wilt in the moonlight, sitting atop a claw-footed table near the window. 

It was obvious that Dandelion, despite the late hour, had not intended to remain here after lighting them; after all, a good night’s sleep paled in comparison to a night of enthusiastic lovemaking with one’s long-lost lover, even though the duchess and her ducal consort had not been lost to one another in the past several days and had consorted quite ducally every morning, afternoon, evening, and nighttime since. Geralt had not been keeping track of the hours, being a rational man with other important things occupying his mind, but Dandelion had only ever truly evaded him _in itinere_ by disappearing into the bushes for short periods of time for private reasons, and although bushes and trees were plentiful in Toussaint, the bushes in the palace were not the sort of bushes one disappeared into for privacy for any length of time.

Geralt gazed into the open room and realized that he could smell a delicate perfume lingering on the bed linens and the eiderdown. It clung faintly to the heavy, billowing curtains which had not yet been drawn for privacy, and to the rich crimson fabric of Dandelion’s doublet and trousers, which lay draped over a generously-cushioned settee.

Sending a suspicious breeze, Geralt glanced behind him, but found that it was only that. The flames from the torch sconces that lit the corridor flickered in the silence, as though to acknowledge his suspicions and reassure him that he was alone.

Geralt closed the door quietly. He would simply have to return tomorrow. Dandelion couldn’t avoid him forever.

*

Dandelion tipped his head back against Geralt’s shoulder. Drawn as tight as a catgut string, the poet was trembling in such a way that his breath seemed to reverberate in the bedchamber, causing the candles by the window to flicker with acknowledgement and excitement; like a prized violin he whined softly under the careful, familiar pressure of Geralt’s fingers as they found his open mouth, curled in behind his teeth, and found his tongue. His saliva eased the way when Geralt dragged his fingertips over Dandelion’s lips and down the front of his throat. The Witcher stroked his neck with a reverence that the bedchamber of the late Duke Raymund had not seen in a great many years.

Had the room not been so silent—had it been filled with music and song, whether made by instrument or by man, Geralt would have found the dancing candles as charming as the dust motes that swirled occasionally in the air, catching his attention for only fragments of seconds before he was drawn back to the man in his lap. As it was, the hour was too late for music, which meant that vibrating strings needed to be stopped.

Geralt knew nothing about playing musical instruments, except how to silence them swiftly and effectively, and so he did.

Dandelion shuddered, gripped Geralt’s hips with his thighs, and opened his mouth soundlessly. His nails dug furrows into Geralt’s forearms. The candles, recognizing the desperation in the small whine that managed to escape his throat, danced frantically, and Geralt gripped Dandelion tighter by the hip and panted against the damp skin of his shoulder, burying his nose in the poet’s hair where sweat mingled with the ghost of something feminine. Perfume, undoubtedly.

“Oh,” Dandelion breathed, arching lazily and unselfconsciously as Geralt began to slow his pace. “Oh, you, you…”

He petted the back of Geralt’s arm as though in a daze. His eyes were dreamy and unfocused when he turned his head and sought Geralt’s mouth for a languid kiss, and no less so when they parted. Geralt rocked upward and watched Dandelion’s eyes flutter shut and roll, and attempted to stifle the possessiveness that had temporarily risen within him.

“You’re worse than that blasted mare of yours, you know… just as stubborn… mm...”

The poet’s insult sputtered and was extinguished as Geralt, mouthing at the curve of his jaw, gently fondled his balls. He all but melted against Geralt’s chest, basking in the attention like a reptile in the desert sun. Dandelion loved to be held, and loved more to be admired. Both were simple pleasures, easy to provide, mindless to enjoy.

“Surely that’s not what you’ve been thinking of all this time. I thought I might fill you with poetic inspiration, not remind you of someone else. Never mind my horse.”

“How foolish of you to assume it’s poetic inspiration you’ve filled me with,” Dandelion replied dryly, once his senses he returned. He clenched himself pointedly around Geralt and stretched his arms up over his head with a satisfied sigh, brushing his fingers through Geralt’s hair as though by accident, then began to shift. It seemed to take a gargantuan effort for him to move, but Geralt was secretly thankful when the poet peeled himself from his bare skin and crawled awkwardly across the bed, as his own arse had been threatening to tingle from lack of circulation under Dandelion’s dead weight. 

“Ouch.”

“Oh, Geralt, be quiet. Of course I’m not spurning you, my dear Knight of Nowhere. It’s simply that the walls in this palace have ears, you understand.”

“As do the dust motes.” Geralt rolled onto his side, popping several intervertebral joints with a grimace in his quest to find a dry spot on the linens. “If you’re worried about anyone reporting your nocturnal activities to our gracious host, it won’t be me.”

Dandelion hummed in agreement and slid off of the bed entirely, though apparently not with the intent to give Geralt room to sprawl out. “I suspected as much. Confident though I am that neither you nor our fellows will be disclosing anything lascivious or discreet in nature to the walls, doors, or pillars, I would still prefer to keep things…”

He didn’t have to continue. Out in the wilderness, or in some small inn set in a village with a population smaller than the number of servants the duchess personally employed in the palace, they could whoop and holler and howl at the moon if they so wished, and risk little more than embarrassing themselves among their company. Duchesses, especially fickle ones—fickle ones who had been waiting a terribly long time for their lover to return, at that—would perhaps be less understanding of the noise.

Geralt watched Dandelion waddle awkwardly to the settee, and he sat daintily on the edge after covering the upholstery with what Geralt suspected were his trousers. “Hopefully no-one looks closely at the sheets. It wouldn’t do to have the furniture give away your secrets.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, my friend. This is the very reason kings and queens maintain separate quarters: so that they are not suffocating one another or squabbling over petty grievances such as who carouses with whom. A man must be allowed some secrets, after all, and a lady her space.”

“Her Enlightened Ladyship isn’t a queen.”

“Perhaps not. But to that lovely lady who has granted us feasts and fires and a safe place to sleep, free from the threat of invading forces…” Dandelion sighed dreamily and turned toward the claw-footed table, where the dim, flickering light from the dying candles and the moon beyond the window was enough to allow him to see his reflection in the small mirror that sat nearby. “Oh, Geralt, to her I am as good as any king.”

In the darkness, and particularly in the moonlight, it was easy to see how one could mistake Dandelion for an elf. Lithe, long-haired, and radiating the confidence and satisfaction of a man who had enjoyed a recent orgasm, his profile became regal in the dark, and Geralt could almost imagine how he might have looked if he had remained in a palace and not wandered through warfare and wilderness.

It was unfortunate indeed; Dandelion rarely missed an opportunity to enjoy life’s most decadent offerings, when circumstances allowed for it, which they most certainly had not as of late. The last weeks of travel had been difficult not just for Dandelion, but for all who had accompanied Geralt on his quest—the constant threat of winter and war had made sleep difficult for all of them, and nightmares interfered when sleep came. The depletion of resources such as vittles, feed for the horses, blood, and even decreased physical strength and mental health in certain instances, had begun to wear on them all, and for Dandelion these conditions had stripped away much of the fat that might have accumulated on any ordinary, well-to-do performer (and viscount, apparently) who was neither a hard-working farmer nor a battle-hardened fighter. His figure was not petite yet not entirely slender, but his improbably youthful features and the haughty airs he often put on granted him a curious sort of timelessness. 

Viscount Dandelion, Pancratts or whatever his name was, with his hair nearly shoulder-length and his brow faintly creased at the reflection in the mirror, might have been a man of twenty-five or two hundred and five, and the still-healing scar on his head which extended from his ear to his temple on an angle without completely disfiguring his hairline—owing to that counterfeit count Emiel Regis’s expertise in wound-dressing and the healing salves later applied by the druidesses of Caed Myrkvid—hardly provided any clue as to which the case was.

“And to think I didn’t even curtsy before burying my face in your royal arse,” Geralt said, interrupting his voyeuristic silence.

“Well, it’s no wonder. You were so excited by the prospect of wetting your whistle that you barely even managed to take your clothes off. But please try not to lose any sleep over it. You’ll remember the proper motions next time.” Dandelion grinned, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back like a great cat, then set about lighting a new candle while Geralt pointedly ignored the single boot that still teetered precariously on the end of the bed. When new light washed over the room Dandelion placed the candle by the mirror, examining his reflection once more with an inscrutable gaze.

“There’s something I’ve been… waiting to ask you,” Geralt said, struck by a sudden desire to snuff out the candlelight and see Dandelion properly, only by the light of the moon and stars. He preferred it that way, being a Witcher. The shadows cast by the candlelight were not sinister to him, but he preferred the clarity of his vision when there was no firelight around. 

(Had Dandelion noticed the Witcher staring at him in the dark, he would have commented on it, but Geralt, who was doing the staring, thought nothing of it. He hadn’t enjoyed Dandelion’s company for some time. Now that food and wine and privacy had been granted, greed had sunk its claws into him, and Geralt was not sure he wished to tear free.)

“Waiting? You? No, that doesn’t sound like you at all. Waiting when all around us men are dying and spectres are galloping through the streets and any moment might be our last? Waiting with the end of the world nigh upon us, as beggars-turned-fortune-tellers and paranoid doomsday prophets suggest?”

“It wasn’t a question I had until recently,” Geralt said defensively. He waited until Dandelion looked away to nudge his boot into the floor. “I didn’t know I wanted to ask, until…”

Dandelion turned in his seat, rested his chin on his forearm and his forearm on the carved edge of the settee, and cast a long, thoughtful gaze at Geralt across the empty space. “Until recently. Hm. No, don’t speak, let me guess. You’re curious about my noble heritage, eh? Is that it? Shocked that I, traveling by your side time and time again over the course of decades, the most loyal and forthcoming of our ragtag circle of friends, have been keeping secrets from you?”

He spoke without malice, and even smiled a little, cocking his head to the side as though inviting Gerlalt to agree with him, but Geralt could not quite decide how to respond. Fortunately, Dandelion seemed to sense his indecision. He rose from his seat and crawled, still somewhat bow-legged, onto the bed, where he assumed the position of a rich and luxurious viscount—which was to say he sprawled out on his back, crossed his arms behind his head, and bared himself unabashedly to Geralt, the dust motes, and the eavesdropping walls.

“I don’t regret not telling you, if that’s what you’re wondering. You won’t get an apology for it.”

“I’m not asking you to apologize.”

“You want to know why I didn’t say anything?”

“You didn’t say anything for the same reason I didn’t tell you _my_ name. For the same reason Regis didn’t reveal his true nature, or Cahir his quest, or Milva…”

He paused and wet his lips, knowing he did not need to say more, as Dandelion had not been the only father and husband among them who still felt sorry for what had transpired. The poet nodded in understanding and gazed expectantly up at him, once again giving the impression of a tomcat who had been caught cleaning himself, entirely without shame or expectations. 

Geralt reached for him and stopped before his fingers could touch the scarred flesh of his temple.

“Anyway,” the Witcher continued in a lower voice, “I no longer feel like asking my question, and I have no interest in playing the part of the mouse, so you no longer have an answer to give me.”

“The part of the mouse,” Dandelion said thoughtfully, almost mouthing the words, speaking so softly that even Geralt had to rely on the shape of his lips to discern it. “Now, that is a strange comparison. I know that you would never imply me to be some terrible creature torturing you with claws and teeth, with eyes flashing like some demon in the dark. Oh, what was that you were saying about poetic inspiration?”

“Nothing,” Geralt said, frowning. “Forget I said anything.”

The poet’s mouth curved into a smile as he lifted a foot and rested it atop Geralt’s thigh. Geralt glanced down at it, but Dandelion simply toed at his soft cock with a noncommittal shrug. He was, it could be said, very good at forgetting. 

“Well, that’s easier said than done. But if you wish it forgotten, I can turn the topic instead to something far more interesting and tragic, which is in fact my newly wounded pride, caused by my recent discovery of the first and certainly not the last sign that my life will soon be coming to an end.”

“What?” Geralt stroked a thumb along the ridge of Dandelion’s tibia. Most of the bruising from ride and battle had faded, and Geralt had rarely seen any of them so clean for this long. Dandelion, in particular, had suffered greatly between the time his boots were lost to the Temerians and the time a new pair was removed from a corpse lying on the road. Now the poet kept himself almost impeccably clean… at least, when he wasn’t in bed. “Surely not impotence, else your dear Anarietta’s good cheer would have taken a noticeable dive and we would have been thrust back into the mud. What else could it be that wounds you so?”

“Please don’t joke about that.”

“Never,” Geralt drawled. He dragged his fingers through the hair on Dandelion’s shin and tried to pretend that he didn’t notice the deliberate pressure Dandelion was applying with his foot. “Tell me about your wounded pride. Add your usual flair.”

Dandelion took a sudden breath and glanced up at the ceiling, blinking as though he’d just been asked to recount a close encounter with death. “It was… oh, I truly shudder to think… Geralt, I’ve finally discovered my first grey hair. Don’t smile like that, I’m trying to change the subject for you. Not only did I discover one grey hair ‘pon my head, but a second. Maybe a third, I will admit I stopped counting out of fear. _Silver hair_ , Geralt, as pure and gleaming as a freshly-minted coin.”

“I’m surprised you’re able to maintain an erection,” Geralt said, once again ignoring that Dandelion was gently coaxing him toward that very insult. 

“And I’m surprised you are—hey!”

Geralt gripped the poet’s ankle and moved it aside for a better view between his legs, a maneuver which Dandelion naturally attempted to thwart by squeezing his thighs together, and which was thwarted in turn by Geralt gripping his other ankle and dragging him closer. Dandelion huffed, wrenched one leg from Geralt’s hands, and, seeing a new opportunity, rested his ankle over Geralt’s shoulder.

“I would ask you to spare some sympathy for an old man, but I’m starting to suspect you have nothing but sarcasm inside you, you boor.”

“Perhaps sarcasm is what I filled you with instead?” Geralt turned his head to press a kiss to Dandelion’s ankle. He was halfway hard again, and already starting to get some better ideas about where precisely he wanted Dandelion’s feet to be. “I have few thoughts to spare for sad old men, and fewer for sad old minstrels. I have no sympathy to spare for you.”

“Then please,” Dandelion murmured, flushing slightly as Geralt rose onto his knees and made his intentions clear, “pray for the young man who becomes old and sad overnight, either by dying prematurely or by discovering that his temples are going to snow.”

“Is there something wrong with white hair?”

Dandelion didn’t have the opportunity to craft an appropriate response, but he proved quickly that there was still some young man left in him; he let out a soft sound and gave a lively jerk at the first hot touch of Geralt’s mouth, and pulled the Witcher closer using his calves.

“Ooh,” he breathed, “yes, right, forget it, just as you said…”

But it seemed he couldn’t let it go, even with the gentle pressure of Geralt’s tongue in all the places Geralt knew he liked it; although Geralt succeeded in ignoring the smugness that rose in him at the thought of knowing Dandelion’s preferences better than any lovestruck duchess, it seemed that Dandelion couldn’t ignore the opportunity to run his mouth while Geralt’s was full.

“...and you Witchers think you’re above the suffering of men, hm, when really you’re all human within, concealing your human woes and wants behind that miserly… ah… mutant’s mask...”

“What makes you think we’re human within?” 

“Well, for one, you act like a human. You sleep like a human, eat like a human, speak like a human, you fuck like a, a...”

“You sound certain of that.”

“I am. Or I was.” Dandelion curled a hand around himself as soon as Geralt’s mouth was out of the way. Geralt wanted to smear his mouth along the inside of Dandelion’s thighs, and he did so knowing that his companion was still somewhat sensitive from their earlier adventures; he shifted away at first from Geralt’s stubble, then, realizing that it was Geralt’s weight keeping him in place, settled back down and accepted his fate. “Except now I’m beginning to see that I was incorrect. You, my lovely friend, fuck like a wild boar.” 

“That’s oddly specific… a wild boar… not, as it would be easy and predictable to say, like a wolf.”

“Yes,” Dandelion murmured, “now you’ve got it. Not at all like a wolf, as you certainly don’t frantically hump everyone who crosses your path and bond with them for better or worse. No, you fuck like a wild boar, for I can’t imagine any other reason why there would be so much squealing coming from a locked room with only you and a lovely lady in it.”

“I thought your title was that of a Viscount, not a Lady.”

“You ass’s ass,” Dandelion hissed, not because he had taken offense but because Geralt had nipped the soft skin of his thigh rather sharply and was soothing the hurt with his tongue. “No marks, I told you. And enough sarcasm. You’re supposed to pity me for growing old.”

“Grow old and pity yourself, as all old men do.”

“Dick,” Dandelion said breathlessly. It was unclear whether that was an insult or a command. Geralt ran his tongue over the poet’s cock just to be sure, and spent a moment mulling over his options while Dandelion traced his fingertips over his face.

“Call me boarish if you like,” he said, satisfied at last with the state of Dandelion’s elderly body, which boasted quite a youthful erection. “Boorish, I won’t tolerate.”

Dandelion slid his fingers through Geralt’s hair and huffed, adjusting his thighs on either side of Geralt’s ears. In the warm candlelight Geralt could see how the flush had spread from his cheeks to his chest and shoulders, but it was the sight immediately before him he preferred: the inviting dark space between Dandelion’s legs that neither the moon nor the fire illuminated, perfectly suited for a Witcher’s specialized vision. 

“Boarish, boorish, it’s all the same to me. You’re dispassionate, depraved… oh, _fuck_ me,” he said without lowering his voice. His breath hitched and his eyes fluttered shut, but the boorish and boarish Witcher paid no mind; he had moved into that dark, inviting space, and with his mouth found Dandelion just as wet as he’d left him.

Geralt was happy to show him how depraved a Witcher could be.

*

The first snow came early and hard, blanketing the vineyards of Toussaint in a way that felt both oppressive and comforting; though autumn and the harvest season had barely passed, the nights had been dreadfully cold, and it only seemed natural that snow should fall at last, turning the gold and red and orange grounds of the duchy into an unbroken field of pristine white. The second day of the storm came with stronger winds that left uncovered noses and cheeks pink and raw and increased the demand for hot soups and warm ciders. Small drifts of snow collected on the stone ledges beyond the windows, frost marked the glass with jagged claws, and the wind blew the snow with such fury that seeing beyond a few yards proved difficult, which did not stop children from rushing into the white and certainly did not put a halt to the palace’s seasonal celebrations.

The picturesque view of the snow-kissed vineyards that could be seen from Dandelion’s bedchamber had grown hazy over the course of the evening as the window frosted and clouded with steam. Beyond the glass the snow was buffeted by the wind. Snowflakes moving too quickly to spot appeared to sway and dance, much like the candles clustered on the claw-footed table that had quickly burned to stubs, evidently having seen too much with their glowing eyes to carry on through the night.

Groaning softly so as not to disturb the candles further, Geralt dug his fingers into Dandelion’s hips and back and held him close. The poet clung to him in return, trembling helplessly against his chest and muffling his heaving breaths and subvocal whines against Geralt’s mouth, sounds which no-one but Geralt could hear and which infiltrated the spaces between his ribs and thrummed like a heartbeat. Despite the frantic pace they had moved at only moments ago he was, as far as Geralt could tell, only half-hard at most, which was still admirable for the number of erections he’d already spent over the past several hours.

“Geralt,” Dandelion whispered, tucking his face against Geralt’s neck. “Geralt, oh…”

Geralt buried his face in Dandelion’s hair and breathed hard. He could detect no hint of perfume, no feminine scent on his fingers or taste on his tongue. He tightened his grip and moved slower, gentler, seeking to provide as much stimulation as Dandelion could tolerate.

“Would you like me to…?”

“No,” Dandelion said a little too quickly. He hadn’t yet caught his breath. He was still twitching around Geralt, and Geralt felt for him, recognizing the physicality of his frustration. “No. Thank you. I appreciate it very much.”

Geralt stroked his fingers over Dandelion’s back. His friend loved greatly to be held and appreciated, and Geralt did not mind doing so when they were already entwined and in need of something safe. This was his time. He would take advantage of it where he could.

He pressed his lips against the side of Dandelion’s head, above the temple so that Dandelion would not wince or turn away, and sighed.

“Of course, my Lord Dandelion, sir.”

The poet snorted softly and rested atop Geralt’s lap until his breathing slowed and the sweat cooled on their skin. Geralt, still facing the room with Dandelion in his embrace, watched the candles melt into nothing. The flames sputtered and extinguished spontaneously, leaving only the hazy shadow of the snow swirling across the floor and over the plush royal linens that they had so greedily soiled, and only when his backside began to ache from the weight of two did he shift carefully downward. It surprised him when Dandelion gave no protest, but he was not so foolish as to think that his friend had fallen asleep. 

It did not surprise him when, after several quiet, peaceful minutes, Dandelion pushed himself up, gave Geralt a small, tired smile, and slid wordlessly off of the bed. 

There was an ermine robe draped over the back of the settee tonight, which Dandelion had tossed over Geralt’s own discarded clothing, which at least had mostly ended up on the furniture and not hastily strewn across the floor. Dandelion drew his hair back and tied it with a long ribbon before shrugging into the fur, and Geralt watched him without comment; in the dark, draped in flowing, expensive clothing, he looked every bit as royal as the ever-generous and doting Lady Anarietta seemed to believe he was. Neither moonlight nor candle-flame would have disputed his nobility, or the handsome, charming, desirable figure that the darkness had sculpted him into. 

Nor could Geralt.

“Well,” Dandelion said at last, fidgeting somewhat with his hands once he’d managed to walk properly to the door. He shifted his weight subtly from foot to foot. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”

“If I’m not assassinated by Her Grace first.”

“Ha, as if I would let that happen.” Dandelion’s laugh was unnerving in its humourlessness. Unnerving because it was not full of deceit, but of doubt. “Try not to get caught on your way out, then. I hear there have been some unsavoury creatures roaming these halls at night.”

“Try not to get caught on your way in,” Geralt replied. He knew the strange creatures that roamed the palace. Cats, mice, consorts, Witchers… all moving swiftly on silent feet, slinking through the shadows, making use of any space available to conduct their unsavoury business.

Dandelion winked at him, smiled a genuine smile, pulled open the door and then paused, mouth pressing into a thin line as he gazed at Geralt.

“You forgot,” he said.

Geralt racked his brain for several long moments.

“Next time,” he said. “You’ll get your curtsy.”

Dandelion’s face softened.

“Next time,” he agreed, and escaped the room like a spectre, leaving only shadow where he had stood. He was on his way to break protocol, Geralt knew, by spending the rest of the evening with his lover; together Dandelion and Anna Henrietta broke their fast each morning, dined happily at noon and in the evening, and consumed one another wholly in the dead of night, _semper idem_. That much had not changed. That much would not change until the spring.

The shadows of the snow drifts swirled on the back of the chamber door, and the wind moaned faintly beyond the window, a low and sombre sound filled with longing and melancholy, the sort of sound which turned cemeteries and empty castle halls into unholy, haunted spaces and raised the hair on one’s arms. A cold wind was often enough to chill one in body and mind, but it was the sound that unnerved men and women and children alike. The sound was a mockery of solitude. Even the dust motes, so typically unafraid of things that moaned, seemed to have bedded down, bored by the sudden stillness that enveloped the chamber, or else afraid of what swirled and danced beyond the palace walls.

Geralt exhaled and closed his eyes, sinking into the eiderdown that was still damp with sweat and other lingering traces of the bedchamber’s long-awaited guest, and was joined once more in his solitude by the howling of the wind and the ghost of a woman’s perfume.


End file.
